Insubordination
by Kaprou
Summary: Sometimes it's tough to get what you want. Logan and Peter Parker go to some extremes in this story. And sometimes you just don't dare do what you're told... (Complete)


I don't own the rights to these characters. Having said that, this is a far cry from canon setting. Relax, enjoy the ride. Even if you've never read the comics or seen the movies or anything, there's enough back story worked in so you won't be lost. Promise. And let me know what you think!

Insubordination

She walked up behind the slim young man, stopping an armspan behind where he hunched over his lunch tray. "Hello, Peter," she said, walking around the end of the table and sitting down facing him. "Don't see you here in the Commons much."

Peter looked up, a bit startled, and he smiled. He hastily swallowed his mouthful of food.

"Aunt May is a really great cook," Peter grinned.

"So you've said," she nodded. She looked briefly around the cafeteria. "Got Christmas plans, Parker?"

"Christmas? Oh, Aunt May and I are going to have a real holiday blowout. I'll probably help her watch Christmas movies until it's time for supper. I'll help her cook. Then we'll eat and open presents and she'll retire from the festivities about nine. I'll make sure the yule tide log doesn't torch the place, and then I'll wander off to bed at a more collegial time in the morning. How about you?"

"Headed to Texas on a family trip. Believe me, yours sounds like more fun." She made a face.

"I think it's going to snow again," Peter said. "Might not be able to fly out."

"If I couldn't, then I'd need a bobsled to get around town."

"Or a chauffeur," he said with a cockeyed grin. "Did you know I have a magic carpet?"

"I did not know that," she said, nodding her head, her bright green eyes wide. He forgot what he was going to say, watching her cute little nose and those mock serious eyes, that beautiful pale face framed in crimson. She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. "Parker?"

"Yes," he said, blinking. "Yes. Please excuse me. I am slow of mind." He put his fist up to his forehead. "Christmas. Carpets. Right." He flushed pink. "So when do you leave?"

"Saturday afternoon," she said. He desperately tried to remember what day it was.

"Saturday, right," he said sagely, fumbling for his day planner. "So what are you doing before you go? Got steamer trunks to pack?"

"More like an overnight bag. Why?"

"Oh, just wondering whether airline regulations really do let people move households on airplanes or if they're more strict about the two carry on limit, that's all," he pattered. "Aaand, to, see, if, you, needed to get anything done in town while you were gone so I could maybe help out."

"Peter," she said with a grin. "Are you offering to take care of my cat?"

"Yes!" he said. "I am offering to take care of your cat. You have a cat?"

"My roomie does," she said. "The adorable furball's name is Hellraiser. I'm sure you'll get along. Tell you what. Why don't you come by tomorrow afternoon and I'll show you around. Deal?"

"Deal," he said.

"Two okay?"

"I'll be there with bells on."

"That's hardly necessary," she said with a smile. "Hellraiser might think you're a chew toy. Here." She took his day planner and opened it randomly, scribbled her address and phone number in, snapped it shut, and slid it back. "See you tomorrow," she said with a dazzling smile, then she was swaying off.

And he just sat there watching.

"I am offering to take care of your cat?" he said to himself. "Her _cat?!?_" He groaned, his head sinking down to his arms on the table. "'Mary Jane, would you like to go out to dinner with me?' And it comes out 'I am offering to take care of your cat?'" He groaned again, and slowly thumped his head against his arms. "Smooth like serrated gravel, Parker. And, for those who are completely hopelessly clueless, today is _Friday._"

**xXx**

Creed inhaled deeply, filling his vast lungs with the air of the city. He bared his teeth at the sky in welcome, challenge, triumph, and defiance. Then he slung his bulk down from the pile of crushed cars. He prowled through the junkyard, sniffing this way and that.

It was good to be free again. He had forgotten just how much he hated wearing a suit, attending meetings, living inside and underground, following the list of rules, fitting where he did not fit. It was like coming alive again, this prowling. He would have been dissatisfied if he was not hunted. The danger he faced spiced his food, flavored his water, perfumed his air. He was alive again. Surely Bryant would know that. Surely Bryant was wise enough to fear it.

Creed cleared the back fence of the junkyard, leaping over the fifteen feet of chain link topped by cyclone barbed wire. He landed heavily in the alley between the junkyard and the restaurant.

First kill Logan. Once in possession of Logan's body, this whole expedition became vindicated. Then he could return, and if Bryant was clever he wouldn't press charges or attempt discipline. Bryant just didn't understand. For this kind of task, you couldn't use the conventional methods, the usual procedures. Logan was not a man. Logan was a predator. You hunt them differently. If possible, you hunt them one on one through the jungle.

Creed bared his teeth again. He knew Logan. He knew that right now, Logan was hunting him. Moving with startling silence and grace for one of his enormity, he catfooted down the alley and vanished into the gloom of the warehouse district. He would find the right place to confront Logan, then he would find Logan himself, then he would return to the Project. First things first.

He had no doubt he would succeed. Logan was civilized overmuch. He wouldn't pay enough attention.

In the end, Logan would be a trophy.

**xXx**

Logan stood in the shadows watching the man in the pinstripe suit explain to the cop where things stood.

"This is a matter for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Officer Calvin. I'm afraid you _don't _have jurisdiction." Another vanilla agent; Logan looked him over and wondered if he knew who he really answered to or if he was just following the next highest tier. Trim dark hair, handsome square jaw, nice tie with an Oxford knot. Very clean cut.

"Any idea how long this cleanup is going to take, _Agent?_" the officer asked. "This investigation may be your jurisdiction, but it's surrounded by my jurisdiction, which includes people who want to use the park and wonder why you guys can come in on helicopters through restricted airspace."

The agent took a step towards the policeman. "Explain it to them so they are soothed and comforted, then get on with keeping the peace." He turned his back and looked to where the team was scanning the charred rubble of the gazebo where the fight had taken place. Another team was collecting blood samples from the smeared earth.

"You should be serving and protecting," the agent said in a low voice. The cop sighed, turned, and slung himself down into his cruiser.

"Good luck, Agent," he said. He started the car and turned in the narrow space, then drove down the avenue.

Logan grinned. Time to check his hunch. He strolled out of the shadows toward the agent, who was busy on his cell phone arranging for the lab to work doubletime on the blood samples. "Scuse me," he said.

The agent ignored him. He cleared his throat.

"Scuse me," he repeated. "I hear there's a Starbucks around here and I got a mighty thirst for some coffee."

The agent looked over his shoulder at him, irritated. "D'ya mind?" he asked, tense. Then it hit him; recognition. Dilation of the pupils, arrested thought and posture; Logan knew he was recognized. Good.

"Down the street, to the left. Can't miss it."

"Thanks, bub," Logan said. He strolled down the sidewalk. The agent was too well briefed to wait until he was out of earshot to make a call. He trotted towards the rest of his team, unsure of earshot's range. Smart move. These guys might be a workout.

Might.

Old instincts flowed through him. He ducked into the alley and leaped, catching the fire escape. He tugged himself up, his swiftness making it look easy. Then he was prowling towards the top, tier after tier. In a minute he reached the flat roof, walking between air conditioning units. He glanced over the edge to make sure he was on the right building, the one with the best view of Starbucks.

The choppers had been in earshot for a minute or so, but they weren't close enough to spot him yet, and he knew they'd hang back until the pursuit started. He jogged to the roof entry and slid down to the side, in its shadow. He waited. Listened. He heard footsteps on the stairs.

The man on the steps stopped, fumbled with the lock, opened the door. Logan watched him from behind as he moved forward to the edge of the roof, flipped his ball cap around backward, and set up his sniper rifle.

"Check," the newcomer said softly into his headset as he snapped the rifle's matte scope open. "This is Eagle One, I have full view."

Logan stealthed up behind the sniper, who swung the barrel of his gun this way and that, quickly learning the street. Logan glanced down the stairwell; backup wasn't coming this high. No action up here. He moved right behind the man; smelled his Old Spice, his dryer sheets, his cooling sweat, his shampoo.

Logan put a fist against the back of the man's head. Gently. "Move and die," he whispered. "Nod once if you understand."

The man very slowly nodded once.

Logan glanced at his gear. Standard setup. He clicked the headset off. "You know who I am," he muttered.

Nod.

"You seem bright enough. You understand your position. Tell me where Bryant's headquarters are."

"I can't do that," the man said. "I don't know."

Logan grunted, then yanked the man back over his leg. The sniper crashed down on his back, his gun still propped up on the wall. Logan knelt on his shoulder and gripped his vest, breathing into his face as he locked eyes. "I can't think of a single reason to let you live then," he whispered.

The sniper lay very still, breathing fast and shallow. "Wait. The captain is in the lobby, with a swat team. I don't even know who Bryant is."

Logan grinned.

"I thought of a reason to let you live," he said.

**xXx**

Peter knocked on Mary Jane's door. She opened it a few seconds later. She was dressed in a careless sweatshirt and jeans. She grinned at him. "Come on in," she said. "Amy's just leaving."

Peter grinned and followed her. Amy, Mary Jane's roommate, was just hauling on her winter coat. She flashed a smile at Peter. "I get to go to Nebraska for my boyfriend's family's Christmas," she said. "Thanks for taking care of Hellraiser."

"I live to serve," Peter said. "Need help with your bags?"

"You're a prince," Amy said, and Peter picked up her suitcase.

"Taking a lot of books, or just sticks of firewood?" he asked, struggling with the weight.

"Bowling balls for all you know, smartalec," Amy said, and with a very blonde flounce she led the way out the door.

After stowing her gear in her SUV, Peter returned to the house rubbing his hands together. Mary Jane met him at the door.

"It _is_ winter, you know," she said, gesturing at his light jacket.

"Hey, this is a scarf," he said, tugging the strip of cloth off. "You think my Aunt May would let me out of the house underdressed?"

"You know best," she said. "We baked cookies to celebrate leaving. Great plane food. We saved you some. Do you like chocolate chip?"

"Oh yeah," he said. He looked around. The entryway was modest and unremarkable, and it opened up into a loft-like living room, with a hall leading back to the two bedrooms. The kitchen was off to the side. The place was decorated with an odd mix of posters, some framed and some taped up. The posters displayed nature shots, boy bands, and movie posters. The floor was carpeted, and accented with laundry. An old couch faced the television.

Peter strayed into the living room, captivated by one of the posters. An eagle hung suspended in an empty sky, gazing at distant mountains. He cocked his head to the side.

"Cookie?" Mary Jane said, approaching.

"No, me Peter. You Mary Jane," Peter replied. She sighed, and handed him a chocolate chip cookie anyway. "Oh, thanks. Hey, I was just admiring this poster."

"And here I thought you were looking for secret passages. Yeah, I love that picture. I have flying dreams sometimes, you know, and looking at that poster reminds me of those dreams; to float effortlessly over everything."

"Yeah," he said, looking at her sideways. "Don't forget I have a magic carpet."

"You'd better use it if you need to. Hellraiser is very delicate and I don't want him to be unsupervised for a whole week. Think you're up to the task, Parker?"

"Lead me to this little catmuffin and we'll make friends," Peter said.

She looked to make sure the front door was shut, then she headed for the pantry. "Razer baby, got a new friend for you," she cooed in a voice that made Peter's knees go all wobbly. She opened the door.

A streak of orange slid out past her leg and zipped into a bedroom. She glanced at Peter with a rueful smile. "He's a bit temperamental with new people, but he's got a heart of gold," she said. "Here puss puss puss."

"Allow me," Peter said gallantly.

"We don't let the cat in the bedrooms because he can have an attitude problem, and he knows one sure way to express his displeasure," she said. "Think you can get him out?"

"Oh yeah," Peter shrugged. He walked in to the darkened bedroom, and let his senses unreel. The cat was watching him from under the far side of the bed. While he knew he could hurl the bed up against the wall, snag the cat in a string of web and jerk it through the air to his waiting hand, he suspected Mary Jane would not approve.

He lowered himself to his hands and knees and peered under the bed, his sharp eyes piercing the gloom easily. The cat glowered at the far end, a furry lump of malignancy. "Here puss puss puss," he said in his most disgustingly charming voice. "Razer here been declawed?" he asked as an afterthought.

"Peter!" Mary Jane said sharply. "The practice of declawing is cruel. A well trained cat makes it unnecessary anyway."

"Ever seen a well trained cat?" he muttered under his breath. He knew what to do, but it would not be simple. He saw a dry erase marker that had rolled under the bed some time ago. His forearm began to tingle as he wove adhesive into the web before he spun it out. "I'll have the little darling in a second," he said.

His focus was intense as he sprayed out a low-impact strand that landed smack on the marker. Ever so slowly, he tugged it closer. The cat's eyes lit up, watching the marker. Hellraiser's tail began to lash. He pounced and batted the web. His paw was stuck.

Peter jerked on the strand, quick as his reflexes could manage. Hellraiser got out a quick yelp before Peter had him by the scruff. His hand itched terribly with the chemicals that began to bead on it, but he rubbed at the webbing and it faded like soapsuds.

"Careful, Peter," Mary Jane said. "Razer isn't a stuffed animal, you know."

"I know," he said. He swiftly folded an arm under the dangling cat and turned around. He smiled, tiny lines of strain creasing the corners of his mouth and his forehead as claws sank deep into the flesh of his arms and chest. "Here's the little cupcake."

Mary Jane smiled and reached for the cat. Peter laughed, fast and high. "Let me hang on to him for a bit," he said. "So he'll be staying in the pantry?"

"Oh, yes," she nodded. "His litter needs cleaning once a day, and changing on Wednesday. His food is on the top shelf, just mix one can with some dry in a one to one ratio. He has an automatic waterer, so just make sure that's full. And if he gets a little down because he misses us, his c-a-t-n-i-p is in the jar on the fridge. Okay?"

"Okay," Peter said. "So you got any time before you go?"

"Well," she said with a smile—

A horn blew outside. "Oh shoot. That's my cab to the airport. Sorry, Pete, gotta go."

"Hey, no problem," he said. "Let me help you with your bags."

"I got it," she said, scooping up her carryon on the way out. "Keys on the table, and Pete: thanks so much. You're a hero." She flashed a smile at him, then she was out the door. It clacked shut behind her, and Hellraiser hissed at Peter.

"I wish people would stop calling me a hero," he muttered.

**xXx**

"I got him. Corner of 9th and Stuart," Logan murmured.

"Sir, I got him. Corner of 9th and Stuart," the sniper said into his mike.

"Roger, Eagle One. Moving out. Do you have the shot?"

"Too many pedestrians," murmured Logan.

"No sir, too many pedestrians."

"Eagle Two, confirm sighting?"

"Eagle Two, can _not _confirm, repeat, can _not_ confirm."

"Cowboy hat, flannel jacket, whiskers. I see him," Logan muttered.

"Cowboy hat, flannel jacket, whiskers, I see him, sir," the sniper said, sweat beading on his face.

"Plan B, go," the team commander said. Logan bared his teeth. Plan B. He swept the sight of the rifle across the intersection, scanning for her. Wondering what shape she'd be this time.

A meter maid raised a walkie talkie to her mouth; Logan read her lips as he listened. "No sign. Eagle One, no sign. Reconfirm?"

"No need," Logan muttered. "God I love a woman in uniform." He lined the sniper rifle up on the meter maid's left leg and breathed out. His finger contracted with his lungs; when his lungs were empty the gun bucked. The meter maid went flying back as though she'd been hit by a car, her hair snapping loose around her face as her hat flew into the crowd.

Logan rolled back as a bullet cracked into the scope of the rifle. That would be Eagle Two. His sharp hearing heard the explosion of orders through the sniper's radio gear. The sniper lay on the roof, wrists and ankles zip tied. Logan tossed him his hat, then sprinted to the rear of the building as a chopper roared closer. He couldn't help grinning.

Over the back of the building, slamming into the wall of the building next door, sliding down and hitting a window ledge; he balanced for a moment, then snapped his hands into the pane of glass. It exploded inward with the dull metallic thud of his fists. He tugged himself inside, sprinted down the hall. Office building.

Logan dashed to the stairwell as shouts and general alarm spread around the broken window. He hopped over the railing; again, again, then he quietly opened the door and strolled out into the hallway. A cafeteria. Midmorning, so not a lot of traffic. He glanced around, then vaulted the six foot counter and window assembly. He darted into the back, where a cook looked up, startled.

A moment later Logan walked to the back elevator with a chef hat and an apron. Three floors down, and he was in the main kitchen of the building, behind the food court. A back door, and he was out.

A municipal bus was pulling up. He hopped up the steps and gave a handful of quarters to the machine, then worked his way back and slung himself down in a seat, yanking his chef hat off. He watched out the window as the black-clad men sprinted around the side of the building, and he squinted up at the thudding blades of the helicopter as it swooped around the side of the building looking for him.

Ten minutes later he swung off the bus and disappeared into the crowd. He had an appointment to keep.

**xXx**

Peter was strolling towards the front doors of the art building when he hesitated. His eyes and nostrils flared, and he sensed... something. Something familiar. Something that alerted him. He cautiously approached the front doors, and glanced out. Cigar smoke. That was it.

Logan grinned at him, turned, and slowly started crunching down the snowy sidewalk. Peter quickly caught up. "How'd you find me here?" he asked, his tone urgent.

Logan shrugged. "College boy, developer fluid, nearby college with a photography lab, registrar's office, cross-reference Peter. Takes a genius."

"You are a very scary man, Logan. Remind me not to get on your bad side."

"Which brings us to our next point," Logan said. He took a deep drag on his cigar. "I need your help."

"With?"

"I need to get up close and personal with Bryant. That's just what Creed will be waiting for. So I need to get Creed busy somewhere else. Can you help me?"

"What is your plan?"

Logan shrugged. "Make you smell like me, then lead Creed away to somewhere secluded. Restrain him temporarily, and get away. Under no circumstances so much as touch each other."

"How do you think Creed will pick up the scent?"

"He no doubt thinks I'm spoilin ta tangle with him as bad as he wants to take another poke at me."

"He's wrong?"

"I'm not ten years old anymore. More's at stake than my personal dislike of Creed. I grew up, he didn't. Plain as that. He'll be looking to pick up my scent at the park. He missed me there once, but he knows I'll be back for him."

"How does he know that?"

"Sixteen years ago he would have been right," Logan said. "Now here's the tricky part. You got ta get him to chase you, but not see you. Do not under any circumstance mix it up with him. Clear?"  
"Sure. And how do I restrain a monster like that? You do have a plan."

"Yeah, I have a plan, but I don't think much of it. I figure a big trank gun loaded with cyanide would put him down for the count. Wouldn't kill him, but it'd give you at least ten, twenty minutes to get a head start. Point is, soon as he knows he's been tricked he'll head straight for Bryant to intercept me or he'll go after you. And I don't want people killed because they're in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"You ever hit him with cyanide before?"

"Nope," Logan said.

They walked, quiet, for a short time.

"When do you want this done, Logan?" Peter asked.

"Tonight. Now."

"I don't have a lot of cyanide on hand. But I can lead him for a merry chase. Believe me, Logan, I can get his attention and get him to follow me for a while."

"Too dangerous," Logan said, shaking his head. "You frustrate him, he'll start killing innocents until you hold still."

Peter stopped and turned to face Logan. "Trust me. I can handle this guy. Let me do it. You want my help, I'm offering it. But you can't dictate terms to me."

Logan looked him in the eye, then sighed and nodded. "Okay. Don't make me sorry, kid."

Peter smiled. "Wouldn't dare. So. How do I smell like you?"

Logan grinned.

**xXx**

"I don't need to say it, do I?" the woman with a blonde page boy hairstyle said to the man by her hospital bed.

He scowled at her. "Don't get smug."

"Smug?" she said, her elfin features contracted with scorn. "Smug? Bryant, let's not forget _I'm_ the one in the hospital with a shattered leg. Let's not forget I was only there because of _your_ orders. Logan is not to be underestimated. I recommended adapting a site appropriate for confrontation and luring him to it. Your genius team knew he'd try to make contact at the park so you tried to arrange for the ambush there in the open with a hundred ways out."

"We had the situation as bottled up as the police could make it," Bryant said tightly, his Canadian accent bleeding through his composure.

She sat up, eyes flashing. "The _police_ are the _wrong_ _weapon_ against _Logan_," she hissed. "Numbers on our side equal body count on our side. Logan is damn good, if you've forgotten. I haven't. If we are going to catch him, we have to have bait he can't resist in a trap he can't escape." She breathed heavily for a moment. "Where _is_ Lisa, anyway? I thought that was her whole purpose in this escapade. Establish contact and smooth recovery."

"When you're in charge, what you think will matter. As it is, you follow my orders. You aren't team leader on a mission. You are a resource for this, nothing more, and you do as you're told." He stopped, his face flushed. "How long until you can reshape your leg?"  
"I'll be mobile by tonight," she said, staring at him. "By tomorrow, good as new. A fifty caliber slug through the bone of my leg takes time to reconstruct."

Bryant nodded curtly. "I'll make arrangements to move you to our headquarters. It seems your life is out of danger." He turned to go.

"He could have blown my head off," she said softly. He stopped, inclined his head towards her without facing her, then pushed the curtain aside and walked out into the room, out the door, gone.

She leaned back, closed her eyes, and sank her consciousness into her body. She sifted through her delightfully mobile flesh, finding the chips of bone scattered into her leg by the bullet that had left a hole the size of a baseball through her leg. She dissolved the bone, reformed the bone. The pain was intense, but her nerves were steady. Another hour or two of this torture and she'd be able to walk.

Danger.

She snapped back to alertness. Blinked her eyes; they shifted back to a lovely green. She gasped, her pupils contracting.

"Hiya darlin," Logan said. He stood three feet from her, staring at her. He wore a leather jacket, jeans, flannel. His smell washed her in a thousand memories.

"Logan," she said with some difficulty. She attempted a smile.

"Nothin personal," he said, pulling out a cigar and a lighter.

"I know," she nodded. "I'm still alive."

"Headquarters." His eyes did not leave her as he bit off the end of his cigar and spat it at the floor.

Her eyes narrowed. "So that's what this is about. Identify and isolate me, then interrogate me. I push this button and you're trapped." Her finger hovered over the nurse call button.

He shrugged. "Push it then," he said, taking his eyes from her and lighting his cigar.

Her hand left the button. "You don't want to kill me, do you."

"Never did," Logan shrugged, looking up. "What's between me and Creed is between me and Creed. You never wanted to get involved."

She sighed. "If Bryant finds out I told you, I could be severely disciplined."

Logan barked a laugh. "They know better." He shrugged. "Tell me or I'll kill you. Tell em I said that."

They looked deep into each other's eyes, and she looked away. "Waterstreet and Nineteenth," she said softly. "Warehouse, Kybersly and Sons."

"Defenses?"  
"Standard laser grid, nerve center in the second floor in the north east corner. Got any smokes?"

He grinned and pulled out a pack of her favorite cigarettes. Fingered one out, put it between her lips, lit it. She took a drag, leaned back, exhaled through her nose, and narrowly regarded him through the haze of smoke.

"Thank you. Backup system is under the warehouse, along with the armory. He's got thirty agents. They've used this place before, so it's been hardened and it has fiberoptic accesses. They made a cell for you that's underwater with about six inches of breathing space in a six foot cube even you shouldn't be able to cut through."

"Anything else?" Logan asked.

"Automatic miniguns, independent power sources, tasernets, that sort of thing. Come on, Logan, that's more than you need."

He nodded. "True. Take care of yourself, darlin. And stay out of my way."

"One and the same, Logan. One and the same." Her eyes gleamed yellow and slitted through the cigarette smoke. She smiled at him, and he turned. In seconds he was beyond recall.

She took a deep drag on her cigarette, counted to fifteen, and pushed the nurse call button.

**xXx**

Peter stumped down the sidewalk, very unhappy in his cowboy boots that did not quite fit properly. He reeked of cigar smoke and other Logan smells.

He had circled the park area twice, stopping five times to smoke for a while and watch the situation. Then he had felt that would be plenty, so he'd started down the street. First sign of Creed and he could lose the boots, jeans, coat, and hat; pull the hood up on his mesh, and tango with Creed.

Two miles away from the park, his scalp tingled, and his subconscious alarms were triggered. He became alert, listening, intent.

Creak of a fire escape. Stutter in a garbage truck engine two streets over. A slamming door. What was it? What lit up his cautions?

The scrape of claw on brick.

Peter zipped a webline up to the corner of the apartment building he was walking past; the line contracted as he kicked off, and it swung him almost halfway up before he hit the wall. That was plenty of time for him to shuck the boots and jacket, and to pull up the hood. He hit the wall and swarmed up. Slinging over the top, he saw Creed two buildings down. Creed saw him, too; snarled a grin, turned, and ran.

Peter hopped out of his jeans and sprang after Creed. He knew that when he caught him, he'd be able to give Creed his best shots, his heaviest hits. A cold feeling settled over him as he realized he might not be able to kill Creed even if he wanted to.

Then it was all speed and trajectory as he sprang across the rooftops. Creed was fast. He was heavy, but he was strong and he knew this area. He cleared the warehouse roof and landed on the ledge that ran between two roof levels. He stood and loped along the narrow wall; Peter realized the roof probably wasn't strong enough to support Creed's weight.

Creed ran from him in a straight line, so it was speed on speed. Peter could keep up, but he felt a grudging respect for the agility of the vast bulk of his opponent.

Creed dropped three stories and landed in a crouch. He darted to the side as Peter swung down and stuck to the wall. Peter could feel Creed's heartbeat; it thudded wherever it was, into the ground and into the wall under Peter's fingertips. His senses cast about, searching. For the first time, Peter felt fear. Nothing that big should be able to hide.

Creed narrowed his eyes at Peter and smiled a feral snarl. Not Logan, then. Fine. This one had it coming...

**xXx**

Logan crouched on the fire escape having a leisurely smoke, watching the warehouse. It almost looked abandoned. Logan considered the doors, windows (what few there were,) walls, floor, guards. He watched for three hours, through one changing of the guard.

By then he had a plan.

Logan slipped through the shadows and then came up to the building from the side. Normally he'd cause a diversion to see how the defenders reacted, to gauge their response readiness. Tonight he knew that any disturbance at all would put them on full alert specifically for him. He'd have to do this quiet-like. And all the missions he started quiet-like tended to end in a bloodbath.

He had checked the city schematics for the sewer layouts of this street, but he was positive the sewer entrance to this building would be heavily guarded. Still, it would be a handy escape route if necessary. He had considered getting to their hidden satellite dishes and wrecking them, so they'd come and investigate and he could slip in. The plan fizzled; he knew they'd spot that as his handiwork immediately, before they even went out to look. Facilities with budgets like this one didn't have a lot go wrong on accident, so he'd had to think very, very carefully about how to get in.

The laser grid would be tied into the hardening of the building, so if he was going to breach the windows, door, wall, or roof he'd have to be damned careful. The grid wouldn't hurt him, but it would sound the alarm and bring things that would. The vents were designed too small for people, with redundancy systems and air scrubbers.

So he'd watched the back of the building for an hour or so. The cameras focused on the chute, then the chute dumped refuse, then the cameras resumed their scanning.

Logan timed his jump and leaped from the rooftop down three stories to clang into the dumpster. None of the ground sensors could have picked up his approach, and none of the cameras were watching at that moment. There was no perfect way in, but this was as close as he could get, and if they were going to come for him here, they'd just have to come for him.

He waited. He was laying in piles of shredded paper, take out pizza, take out Chinese, food wrappers, and so on. Now to wait for the chute to open again. He relaxed and waited.

**xXx**

Peter dropped to the ground in the alley. "Creed," he said softly and clearly. "Why don't you come out where we can talk." His scalp writhed as though ants were swarming all over it. Everywhere he could smell Creed's musk, feel him breathing, hear his heartbeat; but he was hidden in a way Peter did not know how to hide. Hidden as a predator hides before pouncing on its prey.

In answer, a concrete block whipped out of an overturned dumpster. Peter's body dodged before he even spotted the threat. Instead of hitting him square in the head, it crushed into his turning shoulder, spinning him around twice. His elastic bones compacted, his tendons stretched, his springy flesh screamed; the concrete block spun off, whirling through the air to explode into dust and gravel against the wall. Peter's arm sent sheets of pain through his nerves.. He had never taken a hit like that. Nothing broken. Another block; must have had one in each hand. Peter dropped to the ground on all fours, alert and tense. That missile flew over his head and slammed into a heavy steel door, crushing a six inch deep dent in it as the block scattered with the force of impact. And there stood Creed.

Peter's fear coursed through him with adrenaline. He would have his workout. Too shaken for witty repartee, he cut loose with both spinners and slung web at Creed.

Creed bounced to the side and hurled himself headlong at Peter, his jaws open in a roar that came out no louder than a throbbing growl. His claws hissed through the air as Peter sprang to the side, sticking to the wall, then cartwheeling over Creed and landing behind him.

Peter gave it everything he had; he planted a blow square on Creed's spine. He heard a crunch as his powerful fist sank to the heel of his hand in solid muscle. He felt his flexible finger bones bend under the strain, he felt the power move through him and out of him as his blow thudded home.

Creed spun with a backhand that caught Peter in the head. His skull changed its shape, but it was too flexible to crack. Peter sailed away, dark suns bursting in his head, feeling his brain squeeze against his skull. Concussion. Bad one, too. But he was spinning midair and he slapped against the wall without further harm. Creed was already on top of him. Breath came hard to Peter as he sprang to the wall of the building next to him, then slung web to get out of Creed's reach.

Creed hesitated, watching Peter. Then he smiled, slow and cruel. He leaped at the wall and bounced off of it to clear a fifteen foot fence topped with barbed wire.

Peter clung to the wall, breathing hard and trembling. He was afraid. He was afraid of Creed. Creed was strong, fast, skilled, ferocious, and almost invulnerable to damage.

"What am I," Peter breathed to himself, "his press agent?" He dug deep within and found the resolve.

Peter dropped over the fence and found himself in a junkyard.

"Great," he breathed.

**xXx**

Logan sprang up the chute, pushing against the frictionless surface with every ounce of skill he possessed. He managed to get his fingers in the door as it was closing; it coughed, and slid open. He darted through and it closed smoothly. Logan spun around behind a cart; not much of a hiding place. The man in a one-piece coverall returned through the open door at that moment, and inspected the chute. He pushed the button to open it again, looking down the chute with a puzzled expression, then he let it close. He pushed the intercom button by the shutter.

"No blockage. Must have been a hiccup. Nobody here, in any case. I'm heading back to the kitchen, okay?"

"Check, Eckson. Go ahead." The man let up the intercom button and jogged down the stairs.

Logan felt his hand plump out with blood then smooth as his fingers repaired the crushing damage of the doors. He evaded the room's single camera and found himself on the iron walkway over the main warehouse.

The catwalk worked its way around the entire inside, and above it were rafters. On the floor below was the motor pool, including the helipad that could roll out the back over the water and then retract, as well as a few offices. He saw the entry to the lower levels; a staircase and an elevator. What he was looking for was the main office control room, and he saw it across from his current position.

The rafters tempted him, but he knew better than to think they were undefended. Probably had an electric current running through them that was programmed to triple its output if its current was disrupted.

Logan poked his head over the side of the walkway and saw the electric eyes built underneath with a five foot range. So he'd be detected if he tried to travel under the walk. He pulled back to the shadow and thought for a minute. This wasn't the toughest security he'd ever beat, but he had never had to be completely undetected and without assistance before either. Sure, one or the other, but not both.

His forearms itched; his claws were subtly shifting in his flesh, making small cuts. His incredible healing smoothed away the blood pockets as fast as they formed, but Logan was sweating. He squinted at the command tower, his sniffer working overtime.

Through one of the small windows, he saw Lisa bend over a monitor, her face serious. He remembered why he was here. The rest of it went away, and he dropped silently to the floor twenty feet below.

**xXx**

Peter felt as though he was surrounded by tendrils of senses as he cautiously edged forward. He probed every shadow, every nook before he advanced. He had no sense of time, only of intense scrutiny. He did not want to catch another concrete block.

Movement—

Peter lowered his center of gravity and lashed out with his webs, catching the engine block just after Creed hurled it. Springing to the side, Peter latched onto the earth with his feet, exerting his full adhesive talent. The tethered engine block roared through the air just a foot away from Peter's chest. Peter leaned back, hauling on the line with all his strength.

He was strong. He was _really _strong. And he had never before pushed to find the limits of that strength. Now for it—

The block hit the end of its trajectory, still tethered; it swung around. Peter's arms snapped into sharp relief with the strain, but he held, and so did the web. The block slashed around in an arc, and Peter let it go along the way it had come. Creed ducked, startled; the block caromed off of the metal wall of a dump truck, crashing and clattering away.

Creed stood to his impressively towering height. "Nice move. So Logan aint comin."

"He got a better offer to be on the cover of Feral Quarterly; leopard skin thong and the whole nine yards."

Creed looked up and sniffed. "Guess I better get on with killin you so I can get back to work. Nice trick. I figured you'd have some backup."

"Hey, I _am_ the cavalry," Peter said boldly.

"Giddyap," Creed growled. He flashed a savage grin, then leaped.

Peter was ready this time. He snapped a wad of web out, and his aim was excellent. The wad smacked into Creed's face, over his nose and eyes. Peter slid to the side, spun out another filament that slapped into Creed's wrist. Before the behemoth hit the ground, Peter sprang over his back and pulled on the filament with all his might. Creed was yanked around so he smashed to the ground on his shoulderblades. Peter was beyond stopping now. His wrist spat out the strongest web he could make, plastering across Creed's ankle and pinning his leg to the ground.

Creed roared, and flexed his mighty muscles. The web ripped. Creed did a kip up that thudded onto the ground. He snarled as he tore a handful of web off his face. His eyes were glacial, cruel. He wasn't warmed up yet.

Peter was moving. Filaments hissed from his forearms as he sprang to the side, then around, surrounding Creed in sticky strands without hitting him directly. Creed picked up a fender and stood, slitted eyes estimating Peter's movements. Quick as a flash, he drew back his arm to throw.

A sticky blob of web slapped across the fender and the heel of his hand, but there was no time to correct; he stumbled forward as the force of the throw did not get free. Peter sprang through the web and landed on the fender, the entire force of his leap and his inhuman strength coiled in his arm.

He let his fist fly; his punch landed square on Creed's broad forehead. Peter felt the bones in his hand buckle, bending like rubber under the force of a blow that would shatter a normal man's hand. Unnatural force snapped loose into Creed's head; the monster staggered back, startled, as Peter bounded off the fender and landed behind him on the other side of a filament. Creed was stunned; astonished by the force the small man could command. As his cracked skull and spine knitted, he slowly turned; the world was still rocking a bit.

Web slapped into his ankle, and he felt himself tugged off balance. He leaped before he fell, the force of the hop carrying him through two filaments. Then Peter was on the other side of him, and he felt web slop across his face again. He growled, deep in his chest. This time he didn't bother to scrape it off. Webbing snagged around his clenched fist, keeping his hand shut. Peter leaped and rolled and bounced all around the web he was weaving around Creed.

Creed's growl deepened and broadened, and he shoved his way through the filaments. Peter was ahead of him, spraying web across his path. Now Creed was draped in the sticky fabrics. Even where he had torn free, the sticky sheets and ropes fluttered along after him. It was slowing him down.

Then Peter stood still, in the middle, waiting. Creed stood to his full height and glared at him.

Peter was trembling. Creed could smell his fear. But Peter was not backing down. Creed narrowed his eyes and smiled. Good. Very good.

Then Peter leaped forward. He came in high, twisting around Creed's strike in midair. He landed with all four limbs on Creed's chest, packing a startling wallop. He was clear, and he circled around and came in low, lashing out with his heel, crushing into the tender flesh behind Creed's knee. Creed let out a shout, but Peter was airborne, slashing both palms into Creed's ears; eardrums ruptured with the pressure change.

Creed spun with a slash, but Peter was already gone. He was breathing fast, but the fear was galvanized into pure fuel for his speed now. He popped up in the air and drove a knuckle deep into Creed's solar plexus; air left the giant in a whoosh. Peter used his downward momentum to drive his fist into the muscles above Creed's knee; Creed's leg went numb.

Peter's senses screamed in overdrive. He felt the pulse of the vein in Creed's thigh, and he buried his thumb in it. Then he rolled back, seeing the disruption of blood in the giant's body from the abuse it was taking. He was doing it! He was taking on Creed!

Peter went airborne again; there is no gravity, he thought. There is no pain. There is only me, and lightning for blood, and this is living.

He landed with a scything kick that caught Creed in the Achilles tendon, followed by an uppercut that rocked him back upright. A blow to the tricep; the throat; the sternum; the bridge of the nose; the left eye; right canine; left temple; then Peter was sailing back through the air away from Creed before the clumsy swing fought back.

He lashed in again, forearms screaming with the abuse; more web, more _web_! He snagged Creed's heel, already deep in webbing, and yanked as he jump-kicked him in the opposite shoulder. Creed crashed down. Peter folded his legs and dropped, his knees sinking into Creed's abdomen; he used the rebound to land on his feet and snap another line of web, and another, gluing Creed's claws into bluntness.

Creed struggled to his knees, breathing heavily, blood pouring from his face. Peter froze twenty feet away, poised to renew the assault, blood racing with unbearable speed. He had done it. Fought Creed to a standstill. Take _that_, Logan.

Creed watched him out of his good eye. "Not bad, kid," he said. "I felt that last one." He patted his abdomen with his sticky mittened hand.

"Only too glad to be of service," Peter said.

"Let's get started," Creed growled, rising to his feet.

Peter's heart stopped for a moment. No. He crouched. He had knocked Creed down once. Time for an encore. He darted in.

So _fast_.

He snapped a good hit across Creed's jutting elbow, ducked, and came up with a solid gut punch. Creed grunted. Peter spun around him and landed on the other side, web zipping out—

But Creed was already swinging, as though he had _anticipated_ Peter's move; his vast fist in its sticky padding thudded into Peter's torso.

Peter was airborne, then he smashed into a pile of crushed cars. They groaned and tilted; Peter sprang free before they tumbled down. But Creed was there again. A flattened car was a difficult thing to dodge, and Creed swung it like a pro. Peter zipped through the air again, silent artillery exploding before his eyes. His body spun itself and snapped onto the pile of crushed cars instinctively, and pushed him clear before Creed's club became a missile. The whole stack came tearing down, and Peter stumbled as Creed bounded in.

Creed swung; Peter mashed a punch into Creed's wrist, deadening his arm. Creed snatched at him, but Peter ducked and kicked at his feet. The huge man swung around without falling, and Peter was sailing back through the air. Peter clung to the side of the wrecking crane, breathing heavily as he could, watching Creed.

The feral giant's eyes did not leave Peter as he sank his fangs into the sticky webbing around his claws. He pulled it loose, and flexed his hand. He spat the web out, leaving a trailing fu man chu that shifted with the wind, hanging from his face. As he flexed his hand, bones popped inside.

A moment too late Peter realized he was being predictable as he snapped webbing out at those fearsome claws. Creed was moving, spinning, catching the web on his ribs as he whirled. Peter was yanked off balance, surprised, and the coiling web sent him flying at Creed.

Creed jabbed. Peter's world popped. He was sailing back with the force of the monster's blow. But he didn't get far. Creed snatched at his leg.

Creed got a grip.

**xXx**

The door swung shut behind the soldier. "Two coffees, black," the soldier said. Lisa absently took hers, and Bryant reached for his. He took a sip and made a face. "Coffee tastes like crap," he muttered. "Six million dollar facility and the coffee tastes like crap."

"Sorry, sir," the soldier said. Then there was a meaty metallic thud, and he flew through the air to crash against the wall and slide insensibly to the floor.

The other two soldiers in the room spun, but one saw only a blur of motion before his rifle was jerked from his hands. Logan spun, turning his back on the soldier, and flung the rifle at the other. As his target snapped the safety off and brought up his gun, the flying rifle caught him square in the teeth. He slammed back against the wall and toppled to the floor. Logan's elbow snapped back and caught the disarmed soldier in the chest. Something cracked, and Logan's victim flew back, clawing at the air and gurgling. Logan crouched before Lisa and Bryant, claws still sheathed, no less menacing for that.

Bryant raised an eyebrow. "The garbage chute?" he asked cordially.

Logan stood to his full height. "I'll get to you in a minute. Don't be in a rush to get my attention." He looked at Lisa. "You got somethin to tell me?"

"Logan," she said, sounding a bit lost. "How? I mean, this place..."

"Less about me," he growled. "More about you. Tell me what's going on. Now."

"Yes, tell him," Bryant said. He sipped his coffee and made a face.

"Logan," she began, "I was schooling in Boston. Then one weekend I got sick. Real sick."

He said nothing. She went on.

"I went to the emergency room, and they did some blood tests. I don't know what kind of red flag it popped up with the government, but they sent the FBI to talk to me. Turns out I have a rare disease called Tymaz Nine."

Logan's face darkened into a scowl. "That aint no disease, darlin. Tymaz Nine is a biological weapon."

"I know," she nodded. "The FBI referred me to the specialists at the Project. They ran...tests," she said, hesitating. "Logan, they think they can save me. Tymaz Nine has been activated in my bloodstream. I'll be strangled by my blood until, a day or two from now, I'll finally keel over and drown in my own body."

"I know about Tymaz Nine," he said. "But you can't have it. Only the KGB uses it, and only for internal controls in the former Soviet Republic."

"Oh, she has it alright," Bryant said. "You may not have enjoyed your work with the Project, but you know we don't miss a trick when it comes to biological weapons and controls."

Logan didn't look at him. "One more word and you'll be squealing while your guts spill over your shoes. I said shut up, Bryant. No more warnings."

Bryant turned a little green and took a quick sip of coffee.

"They said that you have... regeneration," Lisa said, "a kind of physiology that can reject poisons and shrug off biological controls. They thought that you might have the secret to finding the cure." She abruptly stopped talking, staring at Logan.

He looked straight into her eyes, his face pale. "You came here ta lure me into their trap to squeeze the blood out of me ta find a cure." His voice was oddly final.

"I _raised_ you, darlin," he said, a deep pain in his soft voice. "You didn't even ask me."

She drew in a breath and threw her head back, looking down at him. "They told me about you, Logan. They told me they found you in the snow, no more than an animal. They told me that everything I knew about you was a lie, something they put over your true nature so you would be more controllable. They told me—"

"Enough," Logan said. "That's enough. You listened to them after a weekend in the emergency room, and forgot everythin you learned growin up under my roof, everythin you saw with your own two eyes." He nodded. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm just an animal. Maybe I'm no better than a lab experiment. But, darlin," he said, "now you'll never know. You never asked me. So now..." he shrugged. "Now you'll never know how much I love you."

"You still haven't agreed," Bryant pointed out.

Logan looked at him. "You think I waltzed in here plannin to waltz back out? This was a one-way ticket to begin with, Bryant. All I wanted," he said, slowly turning his eyes back to Lisa, "was an answer. I guess I have it."

She said nothing.

"Take me," Logan said. "Do what you need to do," he added in a low voice. "If I have the cure, I want her to have it. Then let me go."

"Sure," Bryant said. "Then let you go."

They made eye contact, and understood each other quite well.

Then the soldiers came. Logan went quietly.

Bryant watched through the window until Logan was out of sight. "You can come out now," he said. The concealed door in the wall slid open, and Lisa stepped out, trembling. She looked at herself. "Incredible," she said.

"Indeed," the other Lisa agreed, slumping into a chair and rubbing at her leg. "You are very pretty, you know that?"

"Th-thank you," Lisa said. The Lisa in the chair sighed, and her features blurred and shifted; her skin's smell shifted. She was a blonde meter maid. She rubbed her leg more gently, wincing.

"How's the wound?" Bryant said.

"Hurts like a bitch," she muttered.

"I think you gave as good as you got," Bryant smiled. "Did you see the look on his face?"

"And you thought he was here to kill everyone," the blonde said as her eyes flared. "I told you. Irresistible bait in an inescapable trap. Next time listen to me in the first place."

"You forget yourself," Bryant said absently.

Her eyes narrowed. "I never forget myself," she said. "Now you remember that I am not a soldier or an intelligence officer. I'm a spy. The best you have. I am a secret agent, not a lackey. Forget that at your own risk, Bryant."  
He turned and looked down at her wordlessly for a moment. Then he looked back out the window. "I have not forgotten anything. See to it that you stay as sharp. There's no hole in _my_ leg, after all. If it were not for your indiscretion at the hospital, we could have avoided this whole encounter."

"And you'd be chasing Logan and losing troops until _next _Christmas," she shot back.

He turned to Lisa. "You are dismissed," he said. She looked from one to the other, then rapidly left the room. Bryant turned back to the woman on the chair.

"Listen to me very carefully," he said, his voice low. "You stand against me and I'll make an example of you. You don't know what you risk."

Her eyes narrowed. "Like you made an example of Creed? You got promoted because you got too sloppy in the field, Bryant. Don't get in the way of the professionals or you just get people _shot._"

"Is that a threat?" he asked, his voice menacing.

"That depends," she replied, her eyes narrow, slitted, catlike, golden.

"You are on suspension," he said slowly. "You will be inducted into the next intelligence training course at the Camp, off duty for six months."

"You son of a bitch," she said softly. "You know not what you do."

"Any more insubordination out of _you_," he said, "and you'll find yourself back where you started. This audience is over." He turned his back and walked out of the room. She sat and stared at the window, not seeing it, turning things over in her mind. She briefly wondered where Creed was hiding.

**xXx**

Peter screamed as Creed dug his thumb into the muscles in the back of his knee. He abruptly stopped screaming as Creed crushed a blow into his gut. Creed flung him to the ground, caught him on the rebound, and stomped on his ankle and foot. Peter wheezed a gasp as snapping bone reverberated through his body. Then his mind shut down and his body took over.

Fists zipped around and snapped into the pressure points in Creed's wrist; the big man let go. The spider flung itself at the wall and swung up with its three good limbs.

Creed swore, and flung a tire iron. The spider scrabbled to the side as the iron missile buried one of its arms in the crushed car he clung to. Creed threw a jack as the spider sprang free, and it smashed into his back, spinning him so he fell out of sight. Creed leaped up the pile of cars, but by the time he could see over, the spider was gone.

"We'll meet again," Creed muttered. "Hope you learned your lesson." He turned, dropped from the stack, and limped away down the corridors of mangled metal. He stopped, and thought a moment. Then he started into a loping run.

Peter came back to himself, feeling blood ooze and drop from his back. He saw he was stuck to the underside of a car chassis, in a loose stack of flattened cars. He crawled free, and realized he couldn't use his right leg. His back was a seething, throbbing mass of agony. He couldn't see out of his left eye. Ribs broken. Internal bleeding. And he couldn't go to a doctor. Damn.

He stumbled to the fence, crawled over. He was lost for some time, drifting in and out of coherence. Finally he found the alley where he had begun. He stripped off his mesh and left its shredded remains on the ground. It would be dissolved in an hour. He dragged his clothes on, feeling them stick to the blood on his skin. He started home, but when he was almost there he lost his balance and fell, rolling down two flights of stairs. He lay at the bottom, more startled than anything else.

He heard footsteps approaching. A worried man bent over him. "You okay, kid?" he said.

"Fine," Peter muttered. "Das my house." He pointed to his house, blessedly close.

"Hey, I better call an ambulance," the man said, looking at the blood staining Peter's clothes.

"Nah, 'm fine. Soccer player, usta it."

"Whatever you say. Need a hand?"

"Yeah," Peter said. "Thad be good."

They made it to the front door. "Thanks," Peter said with a smile. Then he opened the door and stumbled in.

Upstairs, quick. "Peter, is that you?" came a querulous voice. "Are you alright?"

"Just a minute," he said in his best impression of a normal voice. "I'll be okay."

Then he shucked his clothes and was leaning against the shower wall, a throbbing mass of pain. He stuck himself to the wall with one hand, so he wouldn't fall.

He checked himself out. Deep laceration in the back of his knee, to the bone. Torn tendon. Crushed foot bones, ankle, broken shin. Deep tears and internal bleeding in his back. Broken ribs and maybe ruptured organs in his torso. Other bruises and cuts. Emptied web sacs in his arms.

"Now _that_," he said, "was a workout."

**xXx**

He lay on the bed, burning with fever, rolling. Aunt May came in and sat by his side.

"Peter," she said softly. "I've brought you some more chicken soup."

"Thanks," he said. "It's so cold in here."

"Peter, I think it's time to call the doctor."

"I'm fine," he said, propping himself up on one elbow. "Really. Just need a little more rest."

She looked at him uncertainly, her peering eyes worried. "Well, we'll give it another day."

"How long has it been?" he asked, but he didn't hear her answer. He lay back down, feeling the spider within him furiously knitting his tendons, stitching him shut, sealing him back together, teasing his bones back into place. He surrendered to the process; the fever of activity, not of disease. Peter was weak, and the spider was stronger. He was healing.

Some time later there was a gentle knock on the door.

"You have a guest, Peter," Aunt May said. He glanced over at the door, his eyes flashing in the dimness.

"Thank you, Aunt May," came a purr. Peter sort of grinned.

"Mary Jane," he said. "Hi."

"I'll leave you two alone," Aunt May said with a smile. She shut the door.

"Peter Parker," Mary Jane said, her voice low and furious. "You abandoned the _cat._"

"Oh no," he burbled, pulling the covers over his head. "Oh no, Mary Jane, I'm so sorry." He wanted to die. He wanted to give Creed another chance. This was going to hurt even more than the flying jack had.

"I can't believe it," she said.

"Fell down the steps," he muttered. He pulled the blanket back, and she saw his bruised face. "Two flights, on ice. Sprained my ankle, bruised some ribs. I totally forgot about 'Razer. I'm so sorry. I'm scum."

She leaned forward and touched his forehead. "You're burning up!"

"Fever," he muttered, falling back. His eyes glittered. The spider sized her up, and liked what it saw.

"Oh," Mary Jane said. "Oh, Peter, I'm sorry. I didn't realize what shape you were in. Have you been to the hospital?"

"No insurance," he muttered.

"Peter!" she said, and her anger melted. "Okay, okay, I'll forgive you this once. On one condition."

"Name it," he grunted.

"You have to take me out to dinner."  
"Well," he managed, "Okay."

She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "Poor Peter," she said. "Get better soon, okay?"

"Hoo boy," he faltered. "Sure thing."

She left, and was making small talk with Aunt May in the hallway. Peter grinned until he thought his face would burst. "Will you go out to dinner with me?" he whispered, and he closed his eyes. His forehead creased and his grin became wry. "I wonder what day it is."

**xXx**

Creed crouched and watched the headquarters from across the street. Skeleton crew. Somewhat relaxed security. No sign of elite troops.

Which meant they had Logan and they were out of town. Damn. He'd missed the show.

He stood deliberately. So they were gone. He knew where they went. He wouldn't be far behind.

This wasn't over.

He disappeared into the city, through the city, out into the wild.

It would be over when he _said_ it was over.

Not long now.

That's the story! The stunning conclusion doesn't involve Peter Parker, so it isn't going to be up here. If you're curious, you can check out Volume I at 


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